On the way back they came across numerous scenes of destruction.

Newly created craters on the ground from magical combat, if Bertrand had to guess they were probably caused by fireblast spells, or magic similar to it.

Holes punched through the cracked and shaky house walls, made by muskets no doubt.

Stones left broken and shattered in a line, almost like someone ploughing dirt, that destruction would have been caused by his fellow skirmishers.

And entire houses having collapsed, utterly destroyed by overwhelming force. Most likely from a grenadier's blunderbuss, it could also have been a Quill pistol or maybe even a mage spell though.

And of course the scattered bodies, Seer there were a lot of them.

It seem that at every street they crossed they had to walk over a blood puddle or two, or jump over some poor torn apart soul.

It was utter carnage. The corpses had been so completely violated that he couldn’t even tell what branch of the military they came from.

the broken soldier’s white trousers now appeared to be rose red and their blue trench coats had been turned dark brown from the sheer wave of blood that had been split out from their wearers.

Seer, it was a massacre.

But at least it wasn’t a completely one sided affair.

For although they encountered far fearer adaptor corpses compared to their human comrades, there was still quite a number of dead adaptors.

Bertrand counted a baker's dozen of the monster corpses strewn across their path towards sanctuary.

Just to be sure they were really dead they followed the officer's orders and made sure to shoot each and every last adaptor cadaver they came across in the head, pulverising their skull.

And if they had no head then they would be shot in the spine, essentially bisecting the creatures.

It was an effective system to prevent ambush and without it they may have fallen prey to one of the foul entities traps.

There was an instance after all when it was believed by some of the linemen that one of the adaptor bodies moved.

Whether this was true or not he didn’t know, he was too busy looking behind them.

The main danger of the adaptors seemed to be their ambushes, so it was unlikely they would come from the front.

Finally after a very stressful and slow walk back, they were back at the housing section, ripped and torn tents surrounding them.

The blue fabric is now stained in a polka dot pattern by stray blood splatters.

Stolen novel; please report.

It would seem that despite their best efforts the abominations had still managed to assail their most protected areas.

However the bloodied and exhausted guards although not very reassuring looking did help relieve his anxious heart.

The adaptors had been repulsed.

They may have made it into the housing section but they were sent out of it by disciplined guards.

By the Seer though he still couldn’t figure how they had made it in.

And he didn’t intend on trying to puzzle that out, at least not now.

He was determined to get a good nights rest and ponder just how all this had happened in the morning.

Learning what he needed to watch out for and what plans were in place was a task for future him, not present him.

Barely able to keep his eyes open now that he was safe behind the perimeter of what must be at minimum a hundred soldiers, he bid farewell to his group and headed in the direction of his tent.

Passing limping soldiers who clenched their hands to their wounded sides and also blank faced troops holding their weapons in sickly pale hands.

Overcome by battle exhaustion, it was a sad fate, one that some people simply never recovered from.

You could overcome most wounds with the right care and medical attention, with enough influence or wealth you could even reattach arms or drink a fabled elixir to increase your natural lifespan.

There simply wasn’t anything that could be done for mental wounds though, not without breaking numerous laws at least.

Even kings had been executed due to the ancient laws forbidding mental magic.

Why exactly it had become outlawed when it would have granted the upper class ultimate power was beyond him.

Something to do with extremely wealthy merchants and those of royal blood needing to keep powerful mages in check was his best guess.

Francois would probably know more about it.

Seer was Francois even still alive?

And what about Césaire and Olivier, were the two of them alright?

Sighting his tent, he felt the faint headache that had seized him fade.

The tent flaps were closed, and since he hadn’t closed them in his urgency to leave that could only mean that his squamates were back.

His actual squamates, not some temporary group members.

So, with a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

He makes his way over to the tent flaps and unbuttons them, poking his head through the gap he created.

Almost immediately he feels the cold but of steel against his forehead.

“Speak.” Césaire’s rough voice sounds out from the dark insides of the tent.

“Uh, please put the beamer down?” Bertrand replied nervously, he would be sweating if there was actually anything left to sweat in him.

But throughout the night he had not once had a sip of water, having left his canteen back in this tent.

Running his dry tongue over his flaky lips Bertrand was about to speak again, fearing that his dehydration had made his voice unrecognisable.

Thankfully this fear of his was unfounded as Césaire withdrew the beamer, slinging it back over his shoulder, before roughly grasping Bertrand’s arm and dragging him into the tent.

“We have much to discuss, but first rest.” They roughly said, gaze fierce.

Under the withering glare of Césaire’s narrowed eyes, Bertrand raised his hands up and moved over to the corner of the tent.

And despite his concern about Césaire’s behavior, the moment his head hit the pillow he was out like an extinguished candle.

The loving and yet cold embrace of sleeping having claimed him, he didn’t even have any time to offer up a prayer for warm dreams.